


And I will not desert you now

by Nina36



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, implied Mycroft's death, speculations about season 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-30
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-09-13 10:01:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9118762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nina36/pseuds/Nina36
Summary: After the words – after that moment, what it felt like ages ago, where he had almost kissed him and then sent him away because – because of Mary and Rosie and all the bloody baggage they both carried. And he had left, he had lied and cheated and pretended and deceived – and he had hurt Sherlock, part of him rejoicing at the sight because –Because Sherlock Holmes had broken his heart once and, years later, he was still picking up the pieces.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Just speculation about season 4, with a dose of angst and Johnlock feels, while I finish writing my mammoth fic:)  
> title taken from the song "Follow me" by Muse  
> Enjoy!!

He was – exhausted. Hollowed out.

Lies, blood, death – fear, the sort of fear and danger, not even his _addiction_ had prepared him for. John Watson felt about a hundred years old, his soul kept together by spit, adrenaline and Christ knew what.

He didn’t think he had it in him to – be what he had become since Mary had shot Sherlock. He had lied, deceived, hurt more people than he thought possible – and the collateral damage had soiled his hands with blood.

Sherlock. He had – been to hell, as well. His past, the things that had made him the man he had – fuck, he might as well be honest with himself - fallen in love with out in the open, for everyone to see.

And they were both still reeling. They were raw, they were hurt, both physically and emotionally. Grief was still something that tugged and burned and made breathing a daunting task.

After all had been said and done, there had been no giggles, no phone calls and magic tricks, no goodbyes on a tarmac, no miracles: just a weary man, too thin, too human to do anything but walk away.

Sherlock was walking away from him – after _everything_ – after almost losing each other, after the blood and the punch and almost watching him die, again and again.

After the words – after that moment, what it felt like ages ago, where he had almost kissed him and then sent him away because – because of Mary and Rosie and all the bloody baggage they both carried. And he had left, he had lied and cheated and pretended and deceived – and he had hurt Sherlock, part of him rejoicing at the sight because –

 Because Sherlock Holmes had broken his heart once and, years later, he was still picking up the pieces.

He knew. He was a genius – an exposed genius, whose past had left scars so deep and painful that it was a wonder, a bloody miracle that he had not become like Moriarty, that they had met at all.

He had walked away – and it was raining and he was not home, at Baker Street, where they belonged, where they were supposed to be. And he had not stopped him – why?

And he could see their future, now. He could see their future if he let him do what he wanted to do: put the mask back on, covering the scars and the hurt and the pain and he knew they would still solve cases together, still be codependent tossers who hurt each other and always came back for more, like a bloody ouroboros or dogs chasing their own tails.

Or –

He closed his eyes for a moment, clenched his left hand into a fist, dug his nails into his palms – when he opened his eyes a moment later, Baker Street was still there, the sitting room was still the mess it had been when they had come back – before Sherlock walked away.

“Sod it.” He said to the empty room.

Sherlock Holmes would not walk away from him. Not again, not ever.

* * *

 

The only sounds he was focusing on came from the rain: it was – soothing, in a way. As a mental exercise, he sometimes chose to focus his senses on one thing alone, muting everything else. The rain was – calming him, at the moment.

Mycroft used to tell him how dangerous caring was. He couldn’t find irony, not even bitter and macabre in what had happened: how caring had destroyed everything and everyone. How Mycroft –

No. He focused on the rain: cold, merciless, tickling against windows panes and cars and pooling on the pavement (like blood – no, For God’s sake! No. – it was water, just water).

His world was a wasteland – a shell of what it used to be, what he had missed while being away from London, but at its center John was still there, still standing: tired, frayed around the edges: the best man he had ever met, a liar, his best friend, a pawn and puppet master at the same time.

He sped up his pace.

Before – before things went so spectacularly wrong, before his heart was taken, ripped out from his chest and his past, the skeletons in the closet, the fire, and the blood, there had been a moment: seconds, actually, he had counted them, relived them countless times, where John and him had been close, chest flushed together, eyes locked, and the only sounds in the room had been their breaths and he had wanted, God, he had wanted so much that it had made him dizzy. It still did.

He had pushed John away. He had done the right thing, for once. He had not been a selfish asshole. He had – done what good people were supposed to do.

He had said words, he had been furious, he had lost so much and he was just so bloody _tired._ He kept walking. He did not have a plan, not yet – he had just walked away from Baker Street (home, it was home, it had always been – and despite everything, despite the grief, that animal he had never learned to tame and face it would always be _home_ ) and walked.

There would be arrangements to make, he supposed. There would be words to be spoken, and perhaps, later, cases and adventures and he honestly wished he had truly died that day and after, when Mary had shot him or on the airplane, while making up Victorian gothic tales where things were simple and John was his.

He had not died, however.

He was alive, he was walking under a pouring rain, he had nowhere to go and he could not go home. Too much had been said and done.

He had died for John twice – walking away was not a big thing, not a grand gesture, not a dramatic show of feelings. It was – what John deserved, however.

He ran a hand through his hair, oblivious of his surroundings.

“Sherlock!”

John. It was John’s voice. It was not the rain, it was tearing through the focus he had put on it: noise, texture, consistency. John – always and forever the center of his life. He had always prided himself on the control he had on his body, how his brain overruled everything else: transport, heart, emotions.

Jim Moriarty had been right all along: he was a fake.

His body did not listen to his brain, to the desperate order to keep walking, to pretend he had not heard the man. He slowed his pace. He – waited. He had said once that love was a dangerous disadvantage found on the losing side.

He had lost.

It had only taken him years to truly realize that. And that was an irony he could, somewhat, appreciate. Mycroft would be appalled.

Mycroft – bloody, stupid big brother.

“Sherlock –“ John panted his name.

He had said his name in amazement, anger, betrayal, it had sounded like a prayer, an apology, a curse. He had never heard that particular inflection in       John’s voice: desperation, rawness, love, pleading.

He did not turn. He felt like a ghost. He felt naked – and dear Lord, why did John kept doing the exact opposite of what he expected him to do?

He was close. He was – real and as tired and shattered as he was. He heard John shortening the distance between them: his gait showing how exhausted he felt. Why was he there? Why had he followed him? Didn’t he know? Couldn’t he understand that it was for the better?

“John –“ He said – and it came out as a sigh, as the three words he had said in that room, without looking at him because – he had thought he would die, but he had not been ready to look at him. He still wasn’t.

He looked around, he wasn’t that far from Baker Street, he could not honestly say how long he had walked – his body had betrayed his mind, again. He could feel John, close, so close to him and it was like a beacon, he wanted to turn – he wanted to undo everything that had happened, go back to the start and do everything differently.

Wishful thinking had never been his area, however. He was not about to start now.

“Why?” He asked.

_Why are you here?_

_Why did you follow me?_

_Why did you lie to me?_

_Why did you fall in love with her?_

John had not said anything, but he did not need to look at him, to hear him talk to know that he wanted him to turn. He knew John Watson, after all.

Another step – and he was frozen, he could not move, part of him didn’t want to. His heart was drumming in his chest: a natural reaction, he knew what was causing it – its chemistry, but it was still terrifying. It was the reason why he had trained himself not to feel. All for naught.

“Sherlock – I –“ John was trailing, saying his name as if it was something precious, something he revered.

“Go home.” He said.

The right thing. He had to do the right thing. He had destroyed John’s life with a lie, but he could, at least, fix his mistake with two words. He could try.

“Not without you,” John said.

He turned. John wasn’t even wearing his jacket, he was too pale, almost gaunt, he was the living embodiment of the dangers of dealing with Sherlock Holmes, but he was smiling and he looked _hopeful._ After everything, he still looked hopeful.

God, he loved that man with every fiber of his being.

“John –“ He trailed.

John stepped forward, further shortening the distance between them: he could see the raindrops on his forehead, one jangling on his lashes, he didn’t seem to care. He was smiling – and it was a real, genuine smile: not one that promised lies and violence, not a forced one – it reminded him of the veteran medical doctor he had first met at Barts.

“No, listen to me! You have walked away from me how many times? It doesn’t work! It never works!” John exclaimed. Another step and the distance between them disappeared, and John’s pale hands were on the lapels of his coat, grabbing it.

And he could be petty – he could remind John that he had found himself a nice little psychopath while he had been away, that despite not being truly in love with her (it hardly took a genius to deduce that) he still had married her.

He had chosen her – and vengeance and dangers over him. He had walked away, true, but John had done the same.

He was too tired, too in love with that ordinary man who kept surprising him, kept reminding him, even when he’d rather not to, that he had a heart, to do anything but blink his eyes.  

And John was still looking at him, he was sincere, like the man he had met who couldn’t hide his amazement at his deductions, his frustration and fondness and he had missed him.

“I am trying to do the right thing –“ He said. Was it even his own voice or was it the rain’s? He couldn’t recognize it: too soft, too hesitant, too – human.

John shook his head, and they were so close now, why wasn’t John worrying about what people might think? Why wasn’t he saying anything of the sort?

“Good,” John said, “so am I –“

And they had been there before – that moment, that terrifying leap in the dark – and he had pushed John away the last time, he had hurt him – they had hurt each other. He had flung himself from a rooftop for that man, he had bled and killed and walked through the fire for John Watson – he had willed his heart to beat for him.

Could he take that last step – the leap in the dark he had feared for so long?

He did.

* * *

 

Sherlock’s lips were soft, he tasted like rain and coffee and everything John held dear.

Years, months, weeks, days, hours, minutes and seconds had led them to that moment, to that road, under the rain, their hearts sore and shattered, their bodies carrying the weight of so much loss on their shoulders and yet, they were there – alive, and Sherlock’s hands were cupping his face and it was really happening.

Sherlock had pushed him away, he had hurt Sherlock – he had seen him die twice, he had almost lost him, but in the end, it could not have been any different. It was raining, and it was dark and Sherlock was kissing him – licking at the seam of his lips, desperately seeking entrance – and John was only too happy to oblige, he was Sherlock’s, he had always been.

It was all the silences: warm, angry and full of grief they had experienced together, it was all the giggles on crime scenes, the mad chases after criminals, the lies and the harsh truths, the excitement of watching the madman being like the sun and the quiet nights. It was the time they had wasted, the guilt because he had not waited for him – and more.

It was Sherlock’s taste: so unique, so unmistakably his, that it was like they had kissed a million of times before, even if the angles were awkward and every movement, every swipe of their tongues sent shivers run up and down his spine.

It was their bodies pressed flush against each other’s and he genuinely didn’t give a fuck about what people might say, they had earned that – Sherlock’s hands carding through his hair, his own cupping the back of the man’s neck, and it could not delete the past. There were words to say, there were facts they would have to deal with: people to mourn, pieces of their lives they had to put back together, grief to face instead of burying it deep down.

It was the desperation of having almost lost each other – far too many times, and passion was tinted with it, in their movements, in how he could not stop kissing that mad, stupid, selfless genius in his arms. Or was he in Sherlock’s arms? Did it truly matter?

It was not a happy ending. It was the beginning, a new chapter, the way things should have gone years before.

He shivered when he felt Sherlock breathe against his forehead, with the cold, with that bloody rain, with too many words he needed to say, he closed his eyes.

“You did not give me time to talk – that day.” He said, against his shoulder.

“Hmm?” Sherlock was holding him – as if he was afraid he would go as if he couldn’t believe it was really happening. God, he could relate.

“I love you too.” He said.

 He looked up and was not surprised when he saw that Sherlock was looking at him – and he did not think he had ever seen such a look in his eyes: so human, so naked and full of sentiment.

Sherlock smiled, and it felt like it had been ages since he had last smiled and John couldn’t help thinking that he would go through hell again, in a heartbeat, to have that. To have Sherlock in his arms, smiling and _his._

“Let’s go home.” He said.

Sherlock nodded. They moved, as one, as always when it mattered.

“Take my hand,” He said.

Sherlock had said those exact words, once, in a totally different context. He saw that Sherlock had probably thought about the same thing – about the past, about the lies and the magic tricks that had broken their hearts.

But he took his hand and they entwined fingers. And people would talk – and he didn’t care. All he cared about, all it mattered was that Sherlock and he were going _home._

Finally.

 

 

 

 


End file.
